


first fight

by Zekkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: F/F, First Meetings, First Time, Pre-Series, Scissoring, Sparring, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8534227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: There's a new fighter on the grounds, one Chromia's never seen before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Headcanons galooooore! Worldbuilding for pre-war Iacon and Tarn, assumptions about warframes and how Cybertron works and so on and so forth.
> 
> In all of these headcanons - here's how Chromia and Elita One meet.

There's a new fighter on the grounds, one Chromia's never seen before. She pauses in her sets, slinging her staff over her shoulders and watching the new mech fight with one of their trainers. The blows and stances are textbook; obviously the fight is an assessment of the new mech's reaction times. Anyone can install a basic combat software suite, but it takes training and practice to integrate it with a frame.

Chromia saunters over to the edge of the ring, watching this scrappy newcomer duck and weave and throw weak punches. Normally she wouldn't waste time watching something like this, but whoever this newcomer is, she's pretty stupid.

Well, pretty _and_ stupid. Chromia lets her admit that much to herself.

The trainer's slim and in functional gray with blue pips along her chest-plates, professional enough to polish her scuffs and dents, but old enough to have a few scars that mark real injuries. There's a fighter Chromia knows to respect, even if she's getting better at laying her out on the floor.

But the newcomer? The newcomer's got a pretty faceplate and bright blue optics, but she's picked out a scaldingly pink paintjob for herself, and no one wears that, not even the famed gladiators of Kaon. It's too forward, too immature - like painting grayed helms on your armor. It's a boast, and this brand-spanking new mech doesn't have what it takes to back it up.

Not yet, anyways, but hopefully by the time she's had enough training she'll be mature enough to turn in the pink and put on something less ostentatious.

If she sticks with the training. The last mech Chromia saw with that kind of pink couldn't handle the rigors and quit coming, and last Chromia heard of her she'd gone into archival work.

The trainer - Hullsplit - finally goes in for the kill, giving up the easy pace and jabbing for the newcomer's joints with stiffened fingertips - there's the sound of metal crunching as one blow hits home, crumpling the newcomer's elbow and giving them a taste of the kind of pain they'll have to expect in a real fight.

"Frag!" The newcomer curses, curling their hand protectively over their elbow - but a nanosecond later she drops her hand, swaying back away from another blow, and without words the fight continues.

First test, passed. Chromia lets her staff down, leaning on it as she watches.

The newcomer's speeding up, her reflexes sharpening as Hullsplit continues, and now - well, she might have been able to dodge that blow if she'd been like this earlier. It bodes well for her future if she can adapt this quickly, but Chromia's not laying bets.

This might be a training area, but they don't train hobbyists. Not here. Not when they face real threats, wherever they're deployed.

Hullsplit grunts as one of the newcomer's blows connects with her side, and they spring apart - the newcomer's smirking.

::You,:: comms Hullsplit on the short-range frequency. Her optics never leave the newcomer. ::Quit watching.::

Chromia subspaces her staff, the only warning the newcomer gets, if she's cognizant of it, and she joins the fight, sprinting up to slam her palm into the back of the newcomer's helm, dropping her other hand to pick up her aft and pick her up, turning to throw her bodily into Hullsplit, who makes an angry noise as she gets up - and then it's on, the two of them fighting while the newcomer stays down for long enough for Chromia to spare a thought for any damage she might have sustained - but it's not over until Hullsplit has her pinned on the ground, fingers against her neck cabling.

"Cute," Hullsplit growls at her. "Real cute."

"Had to," Chromia says with a laugh as Hullsplit steps back and turns on her heel, going to check on the newcomber. "It was the only way I had a chance!"

Hullsplit doesn't dignify her with an answer, hauling the newcomer upright and checking her optics.

"We'll get you to a medic," she says. "You passed. Congratulations."

"But I lost," says the newcomber.

"So did I, first time I came in here," says Hullsplit. "So did Chromia - your opponent over there - so relax. We'll get you fixed up and trained so you can't get caught off-guard like that again."

"Hi," Chromia says with a wave. "Mind if I come with? I think I'm leaking."

"Sure," says the newcomer finally, looking between them. "...Is there formal etiquette for ending fights I should be aware of?"

"Nothing you haven't figured out already," says Hullsplit. "Fight ends when there's a clear winner - in here that's when it's a guaranteed UTF without actually doing something the medics can't repair. Out there, it's when the fight's over - and when a fight ends in here, _don't_ pull any funny business. You're utfi, you're out until there's a new fight."

"Got it," says the newcomer, and she turns to Chromia. "Which way to the medbay?"

"This way," Chromia says, and extends an arm towards the largest doorway on the training grounds. It's sized for medical bay-formers and shuttles, not that she's ever seen it used for mechs that big. The newcomer falls into step with her as they leave.

The medbay's quiet, the attending physician coming over quickly to examine their injuries.

"I'm Sealant," she introduces herself, and Chromia lifts her hand.

"I hit her in the back of the helm pretty hard," she says, and Sealant promptly takes the newcomer's chin, studying her optics and scanning her.

A few kliks later - they're released, everything fixed up, and the newcomer turns to her on their way out.

"I'm Elita One," she says, field open in an odd display of welcome. Chromia raises an optic ridge, but opens her field up a little more to answer it.

"Chromia," she says. "No fancy suffixes. Where did you come from?"

"Iacon," Elita One says, field betraying not a single flicker of nerves. That's not a popular place in Tarn - the stereotype of Iacon is a decadent cityformer, obsessed with gilding all of its buildings, amassing itself with urban planners and politicians and all of their associated bureaucracy and arrogance. It's the place responsible for a lot of the highways linking the major cityformers, but it's also a prime exporter of strange decrees and stranger mechs.

"Right. I was sparked here in Tarn," Chromia says. "So I'll give you a word of warning. Wearing pink around here is a good way to attract the attention of soldiers."

"That's fine," Elita One says, lifting her chin. "I'm here to learn how to fight. Will you help me train?"

"Help you?" Chromia says, and laughs. "Sure. Want a private session?"

"Right now?" Elita One says, taking a step forward to look her in the optics. Her field's full of steely determination and something sharp Chromia can't put a word to - but it's the cause for her almost careless invitation, and for her acceptance.

//

"No weapons," Chromia says as she seals the door. They're locked into one of the private sparring rooms - used as often for 'facing as for actual combat, and she doesn't know yet which way this will go. "No targeting the optics or other sensitive spots - I don't want to pay extra at the medic, and neither do you. Sealant's fussy about replacements, and doesn't like to hand out painchips for them."

"Understood," Elita One says, standing in a ready stance, watching her with those sharp optics.

Chromia turns to her, grinning as she moves closer, sinking into her own stance.

They fight.

Elita One's fond of ducking and weaving, lashing out with her hands and using her forearms to guard herself when she can't fully evade a blow. She'll jump, but it's not a very sophisticated technique, and overly reliant on her reflexes.

Chromia points this out to her as they fight, and Elita One gives her a calculating look as they move.

"You're used to fighting with weapons," she says. "And putting force into your swings - but you telegraph too much."

"So we're dancing rather than fighting," Chromia says, taking that information for later, leaving her surprise for later, when she'll lie in the berth analyzing the fight.

Elita gets a blow in on her chest, and Chromia jumps back, then moves in to try another swing, sweeping with her legs and catching Elita when she dodges to the left, laughing as she goes down - and springs back up. Blow-by-blow they're slow, neither of them fighting at their full capacity, and the longer it goes - 

"I only started here less than a stellar cycle ago," Chromia offers. "I spent most of my function training with ranged weapons and fighting with the 87th. I'm your standard fresh-forged soldier, and proud of it."

"And you want to be better," Elita One says. "Like me."

"Yeah," Chromia says, and makes a grab for Elita One's wrist, capturing her in a hold - in a nanosecond she should turn and hurl Elita One away, but she pulls her in close instead, field betraying her intentions.

Elita One lets her kiss her, then curls her free hand around her neck.

"UTF," she declares with a triumphant grin, and Chromia grins back.

"I gave that to you," she says, and Elita squeezes her cabling in a playful threat.

"You did," she agrees. "What's UTF mean?"

"Unable to Function," Chromia says. "Can I kiss you again?"

"I want a real fight," Elita One says.

"Right now?"

"I don't swap cables with strangers," Elita One says.

"You'll get a real fight from me," Chromia says, releasing her wrist - but Elita One doesn't let go of her neck. "How do you want me right now?"

Elita One looks her in the optics, her field betraying a too-sudden lack of confidence that's smoothed over, and Chromia tilts her head back.

"Put me on the ground and open your valve panel," Chromia orders, and Elita One obeys, pushing her down to the ground. Chromia opens her own panel, waiting to see if they're about to hit any shyness.

Elita One locks optics with her, determination filling her field as she opens her panel.

"Now what?"

"Now you let go of my neck and I show you an overload," Chromia says. "Trust me?"

"For now," Elita One says, and she lets go of Chromia, allowing it when Chromia moves her, arranging them both on the floor so their valves are right up against each other, one of Elita One's legs slung over Chromia's so they fit together.

"Now you move," Chromia says, demonstrating by rocking her hips, rubbing their outer nodes together - Elita One gasps, putting her hands on the floor and promptly rubbing back, and they both forget words for a few kliks, raising their charge as they grind against each other - Chromia cuts her vocalizer when Elita One moans, recording the sound.

"Chromia," Elita One says, optics bright. "I want to hear you."

It's an order. Chromia shudders, vocalizer turning back on.

They grin at each other, still feeling each other out, pleasure still coursing through them, but there's something here that's working. Chromia focuses on moving a little harder, a little faster, careful not to lose their rhythm, but eager to overload and listen to Elita One call her name - 

Overload comes sooner than she'd like, and Elita jerks up to grab her wrist as she overloads with a low groan - and yes, Chromia's name - and Chromia moans in response as she finds her own release, their valves slippery and hard to align properly now - 

"Could - could go longer," Chromia says, carefully lying back to cycle her vents. "But I want to be able to walk to the washracks."

"Yeah," Elita One says, putting a hand on her leg.

They lie like that for a moment, fields mingling. They're still wary, still feeling each other out, but Chromia closes her optics for a moment, enjoying the moment where there's the _potential_ they could be partners.


End file.
